


Shaven

by Menolly



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Near character death, Post Finale, Sick!Wilson, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menolly/pseuds/Menolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Wilson's last few days he asks House to do something for him.  Set post-finale. Angst, not a death fic but not far off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaven

It's a crappy day. Rain is pelting against the hotel windows, and outside the greyness of the sky is broken only by more dark clouds waiting to unleash. House welcomes the crappiness. 

Wilson is lying propped up in bed, pillows behind his back and his head lolling back on another one. He can barely hold himself up but his tired eyes follow House as he brings over the equipment. He doesn't say anything, these days he saves his breath for the words that really matter.

"Relax, you can trust me. I used to be a doctor," House says as he sits on the edge of the bed and places a towel over Wilson's lap, which is already covered by a mound of blankets. He's rewarded by a lopsided smile and a roll of Wilson's already wonky eyes. Out of Wilson's sight he reaches down and digs his fingers into his damaged thigh, giving himself a nice jolt of pain to distract him from the dying man in front of him.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Wilson is relying on him to do this, he's not strong enough to do it himself anymore. He soaks a cloth in the hot water from the bowl and leans forward to gently wet Wilson's beard. 

"Don't know why you want me to do this anyway," he says as he works. "Chicks dig the stubble. You could have had the Mom _and_ her daughter in that last place. Trot out the 'I'm dying of cancer' spiel and grandma would have joined in too."

"Didn't want them," the reply comes, quiet and breathless. Wilson has no breath or energy for the quick words that used to fly between them. House swallows the lump in his throat and continues with his ministrations. The shaving cream billows onto Wilson's face, obscuring the hair that has rested there since he was diagnosed. House has never been sure why he'd stopped shaving. He'd heard his team joking that Wilson was trying to look like him. He thinks that maybe Wilson was just trying to look like himself, to find out who that person might be. 

He takes up the razor, disposable - not flat, not today - his hands are not steady enough. Wilson closes his eyes, and House starts to shave him. 

He holds Wilson's head steady with his other hand; he's used to touching Wilson now, to holding him. He doesn't mind now. He likes to feel the warm breathing skin against his own. As he shaves the beard away he sees the once familiar face, for months hidden under a layer of scruff, reappear. For a moment he sees again the young man he met over twenty years ago in a bar in New Orleans. He catches his breath as the years fall away. Maybe this is what Wilson wants to see. 

He shakes off the past and quickly completes his task, patting Wilson's face dry with the towel. He thinks Wilson has fallen asleep but as he sits back those tired eyes open again, meeting his own.

"Thanks, House," Wilson says. He brings up a frail, shaking, hand to touch the smooth skin of his chin and then looks around, searching for something.

House snorts and removes the bowl and the towel, putting them back in the bathroom and snagging a small mirror on the return journey. He takes it back to Wilson and watches as Wilson admires himself in it.

"Yeah, yeah, you look pretty. Guess you're going to want me to do it now," House says, prepared to take the razor and take it to his own face now if that's what Wilson wants. 

"No," Wilson stops and catches his breath, taking gasping lungfuls of air that clearly hurt. His hands flap desperately as House goes to help him. "No, you look good unshaved."

"You said that was a lie," House leans him forward and rubs his back, feeling the bones hard against his hands, there's not much of Wilson left now. 

"I lied," Wilson says and House thinks that it's the beauty of Wilson that he'll never know which one is the truth. 

Wilson quiets and House eases him onto his nest of pillows so he can rest. Wilson turns his head briefly, resting his face against House's palm. It's as much a caress as it is a thank you and House waits until Wilson is asleep before he brushes his lips across the clear, bare, skin and whispers the words Wilson had wanted to hear. 

He lies down next to him, as the rain continues to fall outside.

 

~End


End file.
